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Rose Daughter

Beschreibung

Award-winning author Robin McKinley tells an enthralling story of magic, love, and redemption, based on the classic tale of Beauty and the Beast.

Once upon a time, a wealthy merchant had three daughters. When his business failed, he moved his daughters to the countryside. The youngest daughter, Beauty, is fascinated by the thorny stems of a mysterious plant that overwhelms their neglected cottage. She tends the plant until it blossoms with the most beautiful flowers the sisters have ever seen—roses.

Admiring the roses, an old woman tells Beauty, “Roses are for love.” And she speaks of a sorcerers’ battle many years ago that left a beast in an enchanted palace, and a curse concerning a family of three sisters . . .

The Newbery Medal–winning author’s charming retelling of the classic fairy tale weaves a tangled story of sorcery, loyalty, and love that is sure to cast a spell on readers.

Buchvorschau

Rose Daughter - Robin McKinley

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CHAPTER

1

Her earliest memory was of waking from the dream. It was also her only clear memory of her mother. Her mother was beautiful, dashing, the toast of the town. Her youngest daughter remembered the blur of activity, friends and hangers-on, soothsayers and staff, the bad-tempered pet dragon on a leash—bad-tempered on account of the ocarunda leaves in his food, which prevented him from producing any more fire than might occasionally singe his wary handler, out which also upset his digestion—the constant glamour and motion which was her mother and her mother’s world. She remembered peeping out at her mother from around various thresholds before various nurses and governesses (hired by her dull merchant father) snatched her away.

She remembered too, although she was too young to put it into words, the excitability, no, the restlessness of her mother’s manner, a restlessness of a too-acute alertness in search of something that cannot be found. But such were the brightness and ardour of her mother’s personality that those around her also were swept up into her search, not knowing it was a search, happy merely to be a part of such liveliness and gaiety.

The only thing that ever lingered was the sweet smell of her mother’s perfume.

Her only memory of her mother’s face was from the night she woke from the dream for the first time, crying in terror. In the dream she had been walking—she could barely walk yet in her waking life—toddling down a long dark corridor, only vaguely lit by a few candles set too far into their sconces, too high up in the walls. The shadows stretched everywhere round her, and that was terrible enough; and the silence was almost as dreadful as the darkness. But what was even worse was that she knew a wicked monster waited for her at the end of the corridor. It was the wickedest monster that had ever lived, and it was waiting just for her, and she was all alone.

She was still young enough to be sleeping in a crib with high barred sides; she remembered fastening her tiny fists round the wooden bars, whose square edges cut into her soft palms. She remembered the dream—she remembered crying—and she remembered her mother coming, and bending over her, and picking her up, whispering gently in her ear, holding her against her breast, softly stroking her back. Sitting down quietly on the nurse’s stool and rocking her slowly till she fell asleep again.

She woke in her crib in the morning, just as usual. She asked her nurse where her mamma was; her nurse stared and did not believe her when she tried to tell her, in the few words she was old enough to use, that her mamma had come to her in the night when she had cried. I’d’ve heard you if you yelled, miss, said the nurse stiffly. And I slept quiet last night.

But she knew it was her mother, had to have been her mother. She remembered the sweet smell of her perfume, and no one but her mother ever wore that scent.

Her perfume smelt of flowers, but of no flowers the little girl ever found, neither in the dozens of overflowing vases set in nearly every room of their tall, magnificent town house nearly every day of the year, nor anywhere in the long scrolling curves of the flower-beds in the gardens behind the house, nor in the straight, meticulous rows within the glasshouses and orangeries behind the garden.

She once confided to a new nurse her wish to find the flower that had produced her mother’s scent. She was inspired to do so when the nurse introduced herself by saying, Hello, little one. Your daddy has told me your name, but do you know mine? It’s Pansy, just like the flower. I bet you have lots of pansies in your garden.

Yes, we do, replied the little girl politely. And they’re my favourite—almost. My favourite is a flower I do not know. It is the flower that my mother’s scent comes from. I keep hoping I will find it. Perhaps you will help me.

Pansy had laughed at her, but it was a friendly laugh. What a funny little thing you are, she said. Fancy at your age wanting to know about perfume. You’ll be a heartbreaker in a few years, I guess.

The little girl had looked at her new nurse solemnly but had not troubled to explain further. She could tell Pansy meant to be kind. It was true that she had first become interested in gardens as something other than merely places her nurses sometimes took her, in the peremptory way of grown-ups, when she had made the connexion between perfume smells and flower smells. But she had very soon discovered that she simply liked gardens.

Her mother’s world—her mother’s house—was very exciting, but it was also rather scary. She liked plants. They were quiet, and they stayed in the same place, but they weren’t boring, like a lot of the things she was supposed to be interested in were boring, such as dolls, which just lay there unless you picked them up and did things with them (and then the chief thing you were supposed to do with them, apparently, was to change their clothes, and could there be anything more awfully, deadly boring than changing anyone’s clothes any more often than one was utterly obliged to?). Plants got on with making stems and leaves and flowers and fruit, whatever you did, and a lot of them were nice to the touch: the slight attractive furriness of rabbit’s-ears and Cupid’s-darts, the slick waxy surfaces of camellia leaves and ivy—and lots of them had beautiful flowers, which changed both shape and colour as they opened, and some of them smelt interesting, even if none of them smelt like her mother’s perfume. And then there were things like apples and grapes, which were the best things in the world when you could break them off from the stem yourself and eat them right there.

From the nurses’ point of view, the youngest girl was the least trouble of the three. She neither went out seeking mischief, the more perilous the better, the way the eldest did, nor answered impertinently (and with a vocabulary alarmingly beyond her age), the way the second did. Her one consistent misbehaviour, tiresome enough indeed as it was, and which no amount of punishment seemed able to break her of, was that of escaping into the garden the moment the nurse’s eye was diverted, where she would later be found, digging little holes and planting things—discarded toys (especially dolls), half-eaten biscuits, dead leaves, and dry twigs—singing to herself, and covering her white pinafores and stockings with dirt. None of the nurses ever noticed that the twigs, were they left where she planted them, against all probability, grew. One old gardener noticed, and because he was old and considered rather silly, he had the time to spend making the little girl’s acquaintance.

Nurses never lasted long. Despite the care taken and the warnings given to keep the nurses in the nurseries, eventually some accident of meeting occurred with the merchant’s wife, and the latest nurse, immediately found to be too slow or too dowdy or too easily bewildered to suit, was fired. When Pansy came to say good-bye, she said, I have to go away. Don’t cry, lovey, it’s just the way it is. But I wanted to tell you: It’s roses your mum’s perfume smells of. Roses. No, you don’t have ’em here. It’s generally only sorcerers who can get ’em to grow much. The village I was born in, we had a specially clever greenwitch, and she had one, just one, but it was heaven when it bloomed. That’s how I know. But it takes barrels of petals to make perfume enough to fill a bottle the size of your littlest fingertip—that’s why the sorcerers are interested, see, I never knew a sorcerer wasn’t chiefly out to make money—your pa’s paying a queen’s ransom for it, I can tell you that.

When the youngest daughter was five years old, her mother died. She had bet one of her hunting friends she could leap a half-broken colt over a farm cart. She had lost the bet and broken her neck. The colt broke both forelegs and had to be shot.

The whole city mourned, her husband and two elder daughters most of all. The youngest one embarrassed her family at the funeral by repeating, over and over, Where is my mamma? Where is my mamma?

She is too young to understand, said the grieving friends and acquaintances, and patted her head, and embraced the husband and the elder girls.

A well-meaning greenwitch offered the father a charm for his youngest daughter. She’ll work herself into a fever, poor little thing, the woman said, holding the little bag on its thin ribbon out to him. You just hang it round her neck—I’d do it myself, but it’ll work better coming from your hands—and she’ll know her mamma’s gone, but it won’t hurt till she’s a little more ready for it. It’ll last three, four months if you don’t let it get wet.

But the merchant knocked the small bundle out of the woman’s hand with a cry of rage, and might have struck the greenwitch herself—despite the bad luck invariably attendant on any violence offered any magic practitioner—if those standing nearest had not held him back. The startled greenwitch was hustled away, someone explaining to her in an undertone that the merchant was a little beside himself, that grief had made him so unreasonable that he blamed his wife’s soothsayers for not having warned her against her last, fatal recklessness, and had for the moment turned against all magic. Even her pet dragon had been given away.

The greenwitch allowed herself to be hustled. She was a kindly woman, but not at all grand—greenwitches rarely were—and had known the family at all only because she had twice or three times found the youngest daughter in a flowerbed in one of the city’s municipal parks and returned her to her distracted nurse. She gave one little backward glance to that youngest daughter, who was still running from one mourner to the next and saying, Where is my mamma? Where is my mamma?

I don’t like to think of the little thing’s dreams, murmured the greenwitch, but her escort had brought her to the cemetery gate and turned her loose, with some propelling force, and the greenwitch shook her head sadly but went her own way.

The night of her mother’s funeral her youngest daughter had the dream for the second time. She was older in the dream just as she was in life; older and taller, she spoke in complete sentences and could run without falling down. None of this was of any use to her in the dream. The candles were still too high overhead to cast anything but shadows; she was still all alone, and the unseen monster waited, just for her.

After that she had the dream often.

At first, when she cried out for her mamma, the nurses were sympathetic, but as the months mounted up to a year since the funeral, and no more than a week ever passed before another midnight waking, another sobbing cry of Mamma! Mamma! the nurses grew short-tempered. The little girl learnt not to cry out, but she still had the dream.

And she eluded her protectresses more often than ever and crept out into the garden, where the old gardener (keeping a wary eye out for the descent of a shrieking harpy from the nursery) taught her how better to plant things, and which things to plant, and what to do to make them happy after they were planted.

She grew old enough to try to flee, and so discover that this did her no good in the dream; it was the same dark, silent, sinister corridor, without windows or doors, the same unknown, expectant monster, whichever way she turned. And then she discovered she had never really tried to run away at all, that she was determined to follow the corridor to its end, to face the monster. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

She wondered, as they all three grew up, if it was the dream itself that made her so different from her sisters. They were all beautiful; all three took after their mother. But the eldest one was as brave as she had been, and her name was Lionheart; the second one was as clever as she had been, and her name was Jeweltongue. The youngest was called Beauty.

Beauty adopted the nerve-shattered horses, the dumbly confused and despairing dogs that Lionheart left in her wake. She found homes for them with quiet, timid, dull people—as well as homes for barn-loft kittens, canaries which wouldn’t sing, parrots which wouldn’t talk, and sphinxes which curled up into miserable little balls in the backs of their cages and refused to be goaded into fighting.

She brought cups of tea with her own hands to wounded swains bleeding from cries of Coward! and Lackwit! and offered her own handkerchiefs to maidservants and costumiers found weeping in corners after run-ins with Jeweltongue. She found tactful things to say to urgent young playwrights who wished to be invited to Jeweltongue’s salons, and got rid of philanthropists who wished Jeweltongue to apply her notorious acuteness—and perhaps some of the family’s money—to schemes towards the improvement of the general human lot.

She also kept an eye on the household accounts, to make sure that the calfbound set of modern philosophy Jeweltongue had ordered contained all the twenty volumes she was charged for, that all twenty sets of horseshoes the farrier included in his bill had indeed been nailed to the feet of Lionheart’s carriage teams and hunters, and that the twenty brace of pheasant delivered for a dinner-party were all served to their guests.

On some days, when it seemed to her that everyone she met was either angry or unhappy, she would go out into the garden and hide. She had learned to avoid the army of gardeners, run by an ambitious head gardener who was as forceful and dominating as any general—or rather, she had never outgrown her child’s instinct to drop quietly out of sight when a grown-up moving a little too purposefully was nearby. As soon as she stepped out onto the lawn, she felt tranquillity drift down over her like a veil; and almost as though it were a veil, or as if she had suddenly become a plant herself (a tidy, well-shaped, well-placed plant of a desirable colour and habit, for anything else would have drawn attention at once), she was rarely noticed by the gardeners, hurrying this way and that with military precision, even when they passed quite close to her.

The old gardener who had been kind to her when she was small had been pensioned off and lived in a cottage at some distance from their great house, on the outskirts of the city, where the farmlands began and where he had his own small garden for the first time in his long life. A few times a year she found half a day to go visit him—once with a convalescent puppy who had been stepped on by a carriage horse—but she missed having him in the garden.

Once she arranged the flowers for one of her sisters’ balls. This was ordinarily the housekeeper’s job. Her sisters felt that flower arranging was a pastime for servants or stupid people; Beauty felt that flowers belonged in the garden where they grew. But on the morning of this party the housekeeper had fallen downstairs and sprained her ankle, and was in too much pain to do anything but lie in a darkened room and run the legs off the maid assigned to attend her.

Beauty looked at the poor flowers standing in their buckets of cold water, and at the array of noble vases laid out for them, and began to arrange them, only half aware of what she was about, while her sisters were rushing around the house shouting (in Lionheart’s case) or muttering savagely (in Jeweltongue’s) while they attended to what should have been the housekeeper’s other urgent duties on the day of an important party. Most of Beauty’s mind was occupied with what the night’s events would bring; she would much rather scrub a floor—not that she ever had scrubbed a floor, but she assumed it would be hard, dull, unpleasant work—than attend a ball, which was hard, dull, unpleasant work that didn’t even have a clean floor to show for it afterwards.

Neither Lionheart nor Jeweltongue at best paid much attention to flowers, beyond the fact that one did of course have to have them, as one had place settings for seventy-five and a butler to cherish the wine; but when they came downstairs to have a final look at the front hall and the dining-room, even they were astonished by what Beauty had done.

My saints! said Lionheart. If the conversation flags, we can look at the flowers!

The conversation will not flag, said Jeweltongue composedly, but that is not to say that Beauty has not done miracles, and she patted her sister’s shoulder absently, as one might pat a dog.

I didn’t know flowers could look like this! roared Lionheart, and threw up her arms as if challenging an enemy to strike at her, and laughed. If Miss Fuss-and-Bother could see this, perhaps it would quiet her nerves! Miss Fuss-and-Bother was the name Lionheart had given to the governess least patient with the frequent necessity of fishing Beauty out of her latest muddy haven in the garden and bringing her indoors and dumping her in the bath. Lionheart had often been obliged to join her there after other, more dangerous adventures of her own.

But that ball was particularly successful, and her sisters teased Beauty that it was on account of her flowers and asked if she was keeping a greenwitch in her cupboard, who could work such charms. Beauty, distressed, tried to prevent any of this from reaching their father’s ears, for he would not have taken even a joke about a greenwitch in their house in good part. The housekeeper, who did hear some of it as she hobbled around the house on a stick, was not pleased and contrived to snub Miss Beauty for a fortnight after. (She might also have denuded the garden of flowers in her efforts to have a grander show than Beauty’s for the next party, but the head gardener was more than a match for her.) Beauty stayed out of her way till she had moved her ill will to another target; there was too much temper and spitefulness in the house already, and she thought she might forget her promise to herself never to add to it, and tell the housekeeper what a dreadful old woman she thought her.

Besides, she would probably then have to hire another housekeeper afterwards, and she could think of few things she less wanted to do.

The sisters’ parties, over the course of several seasons, became famous as the finest in the city, as fine as their mother’s had been. Perhaps not quite so grand as the mayor’s, but perhaps more enjoyable; the mayor’s daughters were, after all, rather plain.

Only the ill-natured—especially those whose own parties were slighted in favor of the sisters’—ever suggested that it was the work of any hired magician. Their father’s attitude towards magic was well known. His sudden revulsion of feeling upon his wife’s death had indeed been much talked of; but much more surprising was its result.

It was true that he was the wealthiest merchant in the city, but that was all he was; and if he had long had what seemed, were it not absurd to think so, an almost magical ability to seize what chance he wished when he wished to seize it, well, seers and soothsayers were always going on about how there was no such thing as luck, but that everyone possessed some seeds of magic within themselves, whether or not they ever found them or nursed them into growth. But no mere merchant, even the wealthiest merchant in the biggest city in the country, and whatever the origins of his business luck, should have been able to dislodge any magical practitioner who did not wish to be dislodged; but so it was in this case. Not only were all the magicians, astrologers, and soothsayers who had been members of his wife’s entourage thrown out of his house—which ban was acceptably within his purview—but he saw them driven out of the city.

The sisters were forbidden to have anything to do with magic; the two elder girls still bought small street charms occasionally, and Beauty was good friends with the elderly salamander belonging to the retired sorcerer who lived near them; but none of them would ever hire any practitioner to do a personal spell.

It was no surprise to anyone who paid attention to such matters when Lionheart contracted an engagement with the Duke of Dauntless, who owned six thousand of the finest hunting acres in the entire country, and much else besides. Jeweltongue affianced herself to the Baron of Grandiloquence, who was even wealthier than the Duke, and had a bigger town house. They planned a double wedding; Beauty and the three sisters of the Duke and the four sisters of the Baron should be bridesmaids. It would be the finest wedding of the season, if not the century. Everyone would be there, admiring, envious, and beautifully dressed.

In all the bustle of preparations, no one, not even Beauty, noticed that the old merchant seemed unusually preoccupied.

He had hoped he could put off his business’s ruin till after the wedding. He loved his daughters, but he felt his life had ended with his wife’s death; he had been increasingly unable to concentrate on his business affairs in the years since. His greatest pain as he watched the impending storm approach was the thought that he had not been able to provide a husband for Beauty. It was true that she was not very noticeable in the company of her sisters, but she should have been able to find a suitable husband among all the young men who flocked to their house to court Lionheart and Jeweltongue.

He thought of hiring a good magician or a sorcerer to throw a few days’ hold over the worst of the wreck, but his antipathy to all things magical since his wife’s death meant not only had he lost all his contacts in the magical professions, but a sudden search now for a powerful practitioner was sure to raise gossip—and suspicion. He was not at all certain he would have been able to find one who would accept such a commission from him anyway. It had occurred to him, as the worst of the dull oppression of grief had lifted from his mind, to be surprised no magical practitioner had tried to win revenge for his turning half a dozen of them out of the city; perhaps they had known it was not necessary. The unnatural strength that had enabled him to perform that feat had taken most of his remaining vitality—and business acumen—with it.

The bills for the wedding itself he paid for in his last days as the wealthiest merchant in the city. He would not be able to fulfil the contracts for his daughters’ dowries, but his two elder daughters were in themselves reward enough for any man. And her sisters would do something for Beauty.

It was ten days before the wedding when the news broke. People were stunned. It was all anyone talked about for three days—and then the next news came: The Duke of Dauntless and the Baron of Grandiloquence had broken off the wedding.

The messengers from their fiancés brought the sisters’ fate to them on small squares of thick cream-laid paper, folded and sealed with the heavy heirloom seals of their fiancés’ houses. Lionheart and Jeweltongue each replied with one cold line written in her own firm hand; neither kept her messenger waiting.

By the end of that day Lionheart and Jeweltongue and Beauty and their father were alone in their great house; not a servant remained to them, and many had stolen valuable fittings and furniture as well, guessing correctly that their ruined masters would not be able to order them returned, nor punish them for theft.

As the twilight lengthened in their silent sitting-room, Jeweltongue at last stood up from her chair and began to light the lamps; Lionheart stirred in her corner and went downstairs to the kitchens. Beauty remained where she was, chafing her father’s cold hands and fearing what the expression on his face might mean. Later she ate what Lionheart put in front of her, without noticing what it was, and fed their father with a spoon, as if he were a child. Jeweltongue settled down with the housekeeper’s book and began to study it, making the occasional note.

For the first few days they did only small, immediate things. Lionheart took over the kitchens and cooking; Jeweltongue took over the housekeeping. Beauty began going through the boxes of papers that had been delivered from what had been her father’s office and dumped in a corner of one of the drawing-rooms.

Lionheart could be heard two floors away from the kitchens, cursing and flinging things about, wielding knives and mallets like swords and lances. Jeweltongue rarely spoke aloud, but she swept floors and beat the laundry as pitilessly as she had ever told off an underhousemaid for not blacking a grate sufficiently or a footman waiting at table for having a spot on his shirtfront.

Beauty read their father’s correspondence, trying to discover the real state of their affairs and some gleam of guidance as to what they must do next. She wrote out necessary replies, while her father mumbled and moaned and rocked in his chair, and she held his trembling hand around the pen that he might write his signature when she had finished.

Even the garden could not soothe Beauty during that time. She went out into it occasionally, as she might have reached for a shawl if she were cold; but she would find herself standing nowhere she could remember going, staring blindly at whatever was before her, her thoughts spinning and spinning and spinning until she was dizzy with them. There were now no gardeners to hide from, but any relief she might have found in that was overbalanced by seeing how quickly the garden began to look shabby and neglected. She didn’t much mind the indoors beginning to look shabby and neglected; furniture doesn’t notice being dusty, corners don’t notice cobwebs, cushions don’t notice being unplumped. She told herself that plants didn’t mind going undeadheaded and unpruned—and the weeds, of course, were much happier than they’d ever been before. But the plants in the garden were her friends; the house was just a building full of objects.

She had little appetite and barely noticed as Lionheart’s lumpen messes began to evolve into recognizable dishes. She had never taken a great deal of interest in her own appearance and had minded the least of the three of them when they put their fine clothes away, for they had agreed among themselves that all their good things should go towards assuaging their father’s creditors. She did not notice that Jeweltongue had an immediate gift for invisible darns, for making a bodice out of an old counterpane, a skirt of older curtains, and collar and cuffs of worn linen napkins with the stained bits cut out, and finishing with a pretty dress it was no penance to wear.

Nor could she sleep at night. She felt she would welcome her old nightmare almost as solace, so dreadful had their waking life become; but the dream stayed away. Since her mother’s death it had never left her alone for so long. She found herself missing it; in its absence it became one more security that had been torn away from her, a faithful companion who had deserted her. And it was not until now, with their lives a wreck around them, that she realised she had forgotten what her mother’s face looked like. She could remember remembering, she could remember the long months after her mother’s death, waking from the dream crying, Mamma! and knowing what face she hoped to see when she opened her eyes, knowing her disappointment when it was only the nurse’s. When had she forgotten her mother’s face? Some unmarked moment in the last several years, as childhood memories dimmed under the weight of adult responsibilities, or only now, one more casualty of their ruin? She did not know and could not guess.

What unsettled her most of all was that her last fading wisp of memory contained nothing of her mother’s beauty, but only kindness, kindness and peace, a sense of safe haven. And yet the first thing anyone who had known her mother mentioned about her was her beauty, and while she was praised for her vitality, her wit, and her courage, far from any haven, her companionship was a dare, a challenge, an exhilarating danger.

In among her father’s papers Beauty discovered a lawyers’ copy of a will, dated in May of the year she had turned two, leaving the three sisters the possession of the little house owned by the woman named. Beauty puzzled over this for some time, as she knew all her father’s relatives (none of whom wanted to know him or his daughters anymore), and knew as well that her mother had had none; nor did she know of any connexion whatsoever to anyone or anything so far away from the city of the sisters’ birth. But there was no easy accounting for it, and Beauty had no time for useless mysteries.

There was a lawyers’ letter with the will, dated seven years later, saying that the old woman had disappeared soon after making the will, and in accordance with the law, the woman had now been declared dead, and the house was theirs. It was called Rose Cottage. It lay many weeks’ journey from the city, and it stood alone in rough country, at a little distance from the nearest town.

Even their father’s creditors were not interested in it.

She wrote to the lawyers, asking if there was any further transaction necessary if they wished to take up residence, and received a prompt but curt note in reply saying that the business was no longer anything to do with them but that they supposed the house was still standing.

Rose Cottage, she thought. What a romantic name. I wonder what the woman who had it was like. I suppose it’s like a lot of other house names—a timid family naming theirs Dragon Villa or city folk longing for the country calling theirs Broadmeadow. Perhaps—she almost didn’t dare finish the thought—perhaps for us, just now, perhaps the name is a good omen.

Hesitantly she told her sisters about it. Lionheart said: I wish to go so far away from this hateful city that no one round me even knows its name.

Jeweltongue said: I would not stay here a day longer than I must, if they asked me to be mayor and my only alternative was to live in a hole in the ground.

It was teatime. Late-afternoon light slanted in through the long panes of their sitting-room. They no longer used any of the bigger rooms; their present sitting-room was a small antechamber that had formerly been used to keep not-very-welcome guests waiting long enough to let them know they were not very welcome. In here Jeweltongue saw that the surfaces were dust-free, the glass panes sparkling, and the cushions all plumped. But the view into the garden showed a lawn growing shaggy, and twigs and flower stems broken by rain or wind lay across the paths. It had been three weeks since the Duke and Baron sent their last messages.

Rezensionen

pwaites_1

On the whole, Rose Daughter was all right. Rose Daughter is McKinley’s second time retelling the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast,” the first being her debut novel Beauty. I have read Beauty, but it was too long ago for me to be able to accurately compare the two books.Beauty is the youngest daughter of a merchant. When disaster strikes her family, she along with her father and two sisters moves to a country cottage covered in roses. The fairy tale is not a re-visioning and for the most part unfolds in the usual manner.If you’ve read any amount of McKinley’s work, Rose Daughter should feel at least somewhat familiar. It contains all the usual hallmarks of her work. To quote from my prior review of McKinley’s Shadows: “An animal loving girl goes to have her mystical climatic encounter that draws upon her unexplored magical heritage, all the while accompanied by a practical herd of random animals.” This statement remains more or less true for Rose Daughter, although not much is actually done with the heroine’s magic powers in this case.The focus of the Rose Daughter retelling is the roses themselves. In this version, Beauty is a gardener who loves roses. I actually did like the way McKinley put the roses at the core of the story. It fit with the original tale but still felt new. However, the best aspect of Rose Daughter has to be the relationship between Beauty and her sisters. I really loved the strength of the bond between them and how they worked together in their new circumstances.Rose Daughter is a sedately paced story that I still enjoyed reading. However there was a lot about it that was very vague and unclear. It seems like there were some good ideas with the backstory to the tale (I particularly liked the idea of Beauty’s mother being significant) but I never felt like I completely understood it.Rose Daughter had a few significant problems that related mostly to the warping of time. Beauty decides that she wants to marry the Beast after knowing him for only seven days? Really? She hardly had any interaction with him! Then there’s Beauty leaving the castle near the end. Why did she leave? There was no good reason. And then she hardly spent any time there before heading right back. Basically she only had time to run through a recap for her sisters which was as boring as all get out.I’d probably recommend Rose Daughter only to people who are already fans of McKinley’s fairy tale retellings. If you’re interested in reading one of her books, I would suggest The Hero and the Crown or Sunshine instead.Originally posted on The Illustrated Page.

angelarenea-1

Loved this book, but I felt like I've read it before, oh that's right it's almost exactly the same as Beauty. Down to certain passages being almost identical. But I love this story and this book! I did notice differences and I liked them too!

meganelise1

Beauty was better.

aprildt_1

This author's other spinning of Beauty & the Beast. I think I like Beauty better. This one was really good, though, and perhaps better developed. The Beast is clearer drawn, Beauty has a larger role in the breaking of the spell. Sometimes McKinley gets swept up in her grand descriptions. I think she forgets that lucidity should be one of a writer's goals, not just turning out beautiful phrases one has to wade through.

demiguise

Ms. McKinley decided to revisit the story of 'Beauty and the Beast'. This new story, totally unlike her first try, is interesting but doesn't have the same charm and appeal as 'Beauty'. In places I found it rather confusing and had to interrupt the flow of reading to repeat passages. This is a more mature telling of the story, but I still prefer 'Beauty'.

the_hag

Compared to Beauty, Rose Daughter is (in my opinion) softer, gentler and rather like looking at the familiar tale through a veil...it's slightly fuzzy and shimmery around the edges. Both versions are slow moving, almost pastoral in nature, there is the beast, but we are absent the menacing feel that many retellings of this particular story have. The main "negatives" about Rose daughter are the lack of depth in the Beauty and Beast characters (which I don't know really makes all that much difference in the end) and the utter cacophony of rose talk...there are endless pages of rose gardening, pruning, planting, musing about roses, dreams about them, looking at them, admiring them, talking about them...by the end, I was feeling beat about the head and shoulders with all the rose references and talk. It's clear the author is very in love with roses and the gardening thereof, but I could have done with less of it in the book myself. In the end, I'm left with the feeling that the individual characters where not so much important as the overall story...the traditional elements are all there...ruined merchant family, three sisters, move to the country, fathers trip to the city for the ship that returned, father gets lost in the woods and finds beast/castle, father takes rose, beast demands daughter, daughter goes to castle/beast and on and on. As in her previous book, the two older daughters are NOT vain, spoiled and mean-spirited nor are any of the daughters all that put out about having such a drastic change of lifestyle. Here again, beauty is hard working, industrious and initially the most helpful of the daughters. This version is looser, the bones of the original are there and there ARE a lot of similarities between Rose Daughter and Beauty...but where beauty focuses a lot more on the relationship between the Beauty and the Beast, this one feels more focused on the family and how they endeavored and prospered without Beauty and on the back-story of how the Beast came to be...and this time it goes beyond the simple shallow, callousness of a young and vain prince...and I rather liked that about this version. Additionally the use of magic is prominent in both, but is very different in Rose Daughter...darker and more ever present I think is the best way to describe it. There are illusions about a curse and how that all plays out in the end is an interesting twist to the tale. Overall, I think people who loved beauty and who cannot get past comparing the two may not fully enjoy Rose Daughter...this is a different kind of tale (so very similar, yet strikingly different); its shorter, choppier, doesn't pay as much attention to the main characters as one might think it should, and the ending IS a kind of happily ever after...but not in the way we'd all think, and I think despite it being a good ending, the reality of it is too much for people to accept. For me, I'm good with it, the story is reminiscent of the original feel of fairy tales...Rose Daughter is rich in details and a magically enthralling world but it's vague and fuzzy at the same time. What I mean is that as in most of the original stories there are details or gaps in the story that leave you wondering but...or how...some string of events could possibly work out that way...there is a it of unreality to it that gives the reader pause and for some, that's too uncomfortable a thing to have happen in a story. For me, it comes down to having JUST enough to wonder about (a few loose ends that never really go anywhere) that Rose Daughter lingers, conjuring alternatives that might have been and enjoying over again what was wonderful about this version and in my mind and that's a good think in my book. In the end, I can enjoy both of McKinley's versions of Beauty and the Beast...for different reasons. I give Rose Daughter a sold A, it's just as readable for me and every bit as enjoyable. I'd recommend it in a heart beat for anyone who enjoys reading revisioned fairy tales...for those addicted to McKinley's usual style of writing or who simply adored Beauty beyond all measure, these readers may have trouble enjoying Rose Daughter because it is a departure from her usual writing style.

kidlitlist

Very different in feel to her original re-telling of this story. Didn't appeal quite as much.

bostonian71

An interesting take on the fairy tale, but only partly satisfying. I found the pace of the book disconcerting, with snippets of information about the mystery of the Beast parceled out very intermittently until the last part of the book. At that point the revelations are piled on one after another with blinding speed, and the climax follows fast on their heels with hardly any time allowed to grasp what's going on. I did like the characters and appreciate the fact that everyone -- not just Beauty -- finds his or her talent and a happy place in the world, but it doesn't quite compensate for the pace of the storytelling itself.

zeborah

Fun fact: I always confuse the names Robin McKinley and Patricia McKillip. Not so much the writing, mind.

This is a perfectly competent retelling of Beauty and the Beast. It does some nice stuff with the care of roses as plot-and-symbolism. And I loved the fleshing out of her sisters and their lives.

Unfortunately the novel feels a bit like the author noted down the plot points from the fairy tale as goalposts and wrote the rest of the novel in between them: there's a certain disconnect. I'm reading along this perfectly nice story about Beauty and her sisters and "Oops, time for their father to go on a journey and ask what they want him to bring back and she says a rose." Or this perfectly nice story about Beauty with roses and things in the castle and "Oops, time for him to give her the rose and the speech about how when its petals have all fallen he'll be dead." The parts just don't blend as organically as they ought.

karenirelandphillips

You know the story of the Beauty and the Beast. Of course you do. Disney even made a movie, right?You know nothing. Rose Daughter is a lyrical, fantastic and grounded retelling of the fairy tale. Three sisters, reduced by penury by their father's bankruptcy, remake their lives in a remote cottage surrounded by rose bushes.The oldest daughter disguises herself and becomes a groom to work with the horses she loves, and the middle daughter discovers a passion and talent for sewing and becomes a renowned seamstress. The third daughter, Beauty, tends their ailing father and makes the cottage garden prosper and the roses bloom for the first time in decades. This is a YA, so not all that long, and I can't really bear to tell you more of the plot because it's just so beautiful. And I'm not being ironic here. The language made me want to put on slippers of gold cloth and dance, or dig my fingers in the dirt - go read it. There are strong themes of family – the three sisters who learn to value themselves – and family - the three sisters who learn to value each other – and the glory of love.

the_hibernator

Beauty and her two sisters were living in the lap of luxury with their successful father when suddenly everything changed. Her father's business failed, and they were left destitute. They made a new beginning in Rose Cottage, where things weren't quite what they seemed. The coming of Beauty's family to Rose Cottage was the first step to opening an ancient curse that would change their lives forever. This was an adorable little story...just as enjoyable as McKinley's first retelling of the Beauty and the Beast story. I was skeptical that McKinely could tell the story twice but, although there were some similarities, the two stories were very different. THIS Beauty used her magical gardening capabilities to change the world...

satyridae

I really liked this take on the Beauty and the Beast legend, probably because I'm a gardener, and McKinley is clearly a real gardener too. The reverential way she treats compost is worth the price of admission. I do find her writing style to be a little lush for my tastes sometimes, and this book is a good example of that lushness. It's very romantic, of course. I loved the cat parts almost as much as the garden parts.

rivkabelle_1

Where Beauty is a sweet, simple retelling of the story, Rose Daughter reflects a more complex and detailed telling. It was engrossing, reminding me of the way I felt reading Pegasus - it was a story that got deep inside me, invading my dreams and making me think. There's more magic, more danger, more development of both characters and the story. It's a complicated story that tugs at the heart and gets into your head. It's a story that requires more of you, as reader, than Beauty did. And I like that. Actually, I love that - I want to get involved with the books I'm reading. (Though I will say I'm very glad I didn't end up crying my eyes out while reading this one like I did during Pegasus!) I was swept up in the story and carried along until the ending - which caught my entirely by surprise. And yet, even though I wasn't expecting it to end the way it did, I was pleased - delightfully happy - with the ending.

thelorelei_1

"Rose Daughter" is Robin McKinley's second take on the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale, and boy did I have trouble with it as a teenager. I think it is because it is definitely a more mature look at the story; I just reread it for the second time after several years and this time around I understood the intent behind this new rendition. This isn't intended to be cryptic, just to explain that as an idealist teenager, there were some things I didn't "get" about McKinley's new version. One very interesting aspect of the story is that it is much more directly allegorical than her first book, "Beauty." In this retelling, Beauty's sisters are named "Jeweltongue" and "Lionheart," and they interact with characters such as the seamstress, "Mrs. Bestcloth," and the squire, "Mr. Trueword." The core of the story is the familiar arch of the merchant's family that loses everything in financial ruin, and moves to the country in their hardship. Of course Beauty sacrifices herself in order to save her father when he steals a rose from the castle of a mysterious Beast, and of course she ends up falling in love with this Beast. But the depth with which McKinley paints the experience of loneliness, regret, and heartbreak is something quite beautiful to read, and hard to describe in just a few short paragraphs. Read this for a moving love story (one with a lot of beautiful descriptions of roses).

pelirroja67

Listened this time via audiobook.

sandyamcpherson

I dithered between 3-1/2 and 4 stars. The story pulled me in pretty readily but I kept expecting a different plot, so I was occasionally distracted. To be fair, I probably read this book too soon after reading 'Beauty' and need to give this folktale a re-reading.

wyvernfriend

After Beauty I didn't think that Robin McKinley could do a comparable retelling of the Beauty and the Beast story, I was wrong, it's not better, it's as good, slightly different, more mature but still a good yarn.

cassiphone

I love the original Beauty by Robin McKinley, but I love this one more - the story is just a touch more sophisticated and satisfying.

bluesalamanders

I didn't like this much better than the last time I read it. This is one of my least favorite of Robin McKinley's books (second only to Dragonhaven, now). It just doesn't quite fit together. The writing is still beautiful but it seems like either there are a lot of unrelated ideas sort of smushed together to make this book or there was some overzealous editing.

the1butterfly

Beauty is Robin McKinley's most popular and earlier retelling of the Beauty and the Beast tale, but I agree with Robin McKinley on this one- this version is more mature. I really loved it- the best part being (and this is a spoiler, so stop reading if you haven't read it yet) that the best doesn't change back. One thing that bothers me about so many tellings of the beauty and the beast is that when the best changes back to the handsome prince, the whole message about not being superficial is lost. He only changes back to appeal to our superficial tendencies. What's the point of looking beyond the outer appearence if the outer appearance is truly only transitory. McKinley finds the beast's strengths and turns this into a tale of understanding true beauty. You rock, Robin McKinley!

aerlinn

It was beautiful, but didn't have the exuberance of Beauty; on rereading more McKinley I'm starting to realize that the first novel may have been the most joyous. Which is not to say Rose Daughter isn't wonderful - it is. It tackled the story in a totally different way, with never an echo of the first book. (I wonder if that isn't why it seems somewhat more studied; she must have trod very carefully over the ground she'd already covered to avoid stepping in the same footprints.) I suppose this and her other novels are more "adult" in tone... Still appropriate for young adults, but more mature. Or something.

wonderlandgrrl

A retelling of Beauty & the Beast...to be honest I thought her book Beauty which is an alternate retelling of B&B a much better read

kassilem

This took me much longer to get through than I anticipated. I think it was the writing; it was very lyrical and very descriptive. I prefer books with more dialogue and line/paragraph breaks. Besides that, this was an interesting twist on the fairy tale. Pretty simple with just a few details on the Beasts past different than usual, and of course Beauty's personage. But I didn't really invest in either character, which for me is really important. Glad I found the book but I won't be looking for it again most likely.

wealhtheowwylfing

The first retelling of Beauty and the Beast by Ms. McKinley. A nice story, but her second retelling, Beauty is so much better.

missmimsy

This was definitely an enjoyable take on one of my favorite tales. Three sisters instead of the one Disney gave us. There is a mishap with the father resulting is one of his daughters living at the Beast's magical and mysterious home. Some elements were not well explained or had only a very cursory mention but they did fit in this world, I just wanted a little more explanation (animals and salamander if you're wondering). All in all an enjoyable read I didn’t want to put down.

reading_fox

Charming as of all of Mckinley's work. A gentle re-telling of Beauty and the Beast, which is a theme she's written upon a couple of times. This was very much inspired by her move to live in a quaint english village. This is much more true to the original story than some fairy tale re-tellings, but none the worse for that. There are three sisters, who's successful father meets with sudden ruin and they're forced to flee to a desolate village and make a new life for themselves. This they do, but the father finally recovers sufficiently to travel, but becomes ensnared in the magical lair of a Beast, and can only escape with the promise of his daughter's hand. Beauty being the youngest and plainest of his daughters faces her fate bravely. She's always had a green-fingered touch with plants, and so she manages to coax the dying Beast's plants back to life, before discovering he isn't quite so fearsome as he might first appear. There's lots of gentle humour and joy in the success of others. The love between the family sisters is especially well done, the forgiveness and acceptance of the faults in others. The Beast himself is never more than a large figure clothed in rich black robes. But his house remains eminently mysterious and causes Beauty much consternation. This is as close to angst and anything that happens in the novel. Yet it remains engaging and if not fast moving than at least interesting and enjoyable. It has Roses and Unicorns and baby animals. It's always going to be wonderful.What more need you ask.

rosemerrysong

Think an author can only tell a story once? Then read this second retelling of Beauty and the Beast and you'll be amazed.

bookczuk

A satisfying retelling of Beauty and the Beast.

jjmcgaffey

I do prefer Beauty to Rose Daughter - Grace and Hope and Beauty seem much more like real people, while Lionheart and Jeweltongue and Beauty are more fairy-tale characters, somewhat abstract and unreal. And I still have no idea who/what their mother was - not the simulacrum, not her daughter or descendant, but...linked somehow? Or something. Which leaves the story a little unfinished. So with all that - it is only a good story, not one of my favorites like Beauty. The roses are very symbolic, but also very real - I like this Beauty best when she's dealing with the roses and the animals, and resolutely ignoring the oddnesses of the palace. It's a very rich story, for all its fairy-tale flavor - one of those you can spend a lot of time thinking about when you've finished reading it. But being me - I'm now going to reread Beauty.

bugsyboog

In this beautiful and graceful novel, McKinley retells the fairy tale of Beauty and the Beast. Typical of McKinley’s books, the prose is grand and poetic, truly a joy to read. While this has many of the traditional elements of Beauty and the Beast, it includes other intriguing additions like sorcerers, a greenwich, unicorns, and Beauty’s green thumb for roses. Beauty’s father offends the Beast, whose palace provided him safety in a winter storm. The beast made him promise to bring him one of his daughters. When Beauty comes to the castle, she is terrified but intrigued by the Beast, but even more so by his dying rose garden in a greenhouse. Beauty dines with the Beast each night and gently tells him no every night when he asks her to marry him. Beauty tends the gardens until she gets the roses to bloom, and then goes back to her family, promising the Beast she will return before the last petal on his rose falls. Almost too late, she declares her love to save the Beast when she returns. This version has a surprising ending that shows true love: the beast does not turn back into a handsome prince, but he and Beauty live happily ever after in a simple life. 5 Stars—beautiful imagery of the ever-changing magical castle, a well-told tale that shows Beauty as a deep, thoughtful and kind person.